


Mail-Order Werewolf Bride

by tolieawake



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolieawake/pseuds/tolieawake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(the correct term was a ‘Potential Lifemate’, Scott insisted, after Stiles had sworn him to secrecy).</p>
<p>When he was a kid, Stiles signed himself up as a 'Mail-Order Bride' for a werewolf. Now, he's 21, and it's time to meet his 'potential lifemate'. Oh, and somehow, he's got to tell his father what he's done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  
When Stiles was a kid, he’d done something…. Well, something his father would have yelled at him about. But Stiles couldn’t feel sorry for it, not even with all it meant now. Because they’d needed the money, and everyone knew the Wolf Packs would provide for the families of those willing to join them.  
  
So Stiles had forged his dad’s signature and registered himself as, well, as a mail-order bride for a werewolf (the correct term was a ‘Potential Lifemate’, Scott insisted, after Stiles had sworn him to secrecy).  
  
Now, now Stiles was 21, newly graduated from Stamford with a Masters degree (Lydia had insisted, once she found out, even though Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever even get to use his degree), and staring at the thick, cream coloured envelope holding his new address and Pack.  
  
He hadn’t opened it yet. He’d have to do that. And tell his father, somehow.  
  
Which kinda sucked, seeing as his father was going to yell at him, and then maybe cry and be all emotional, and they were Stilinskis. Stilinskis didn’t really do emotions that well. At least, not the negative kind, his dad’s hugs were awesome.  
  
And then he’d have to explain why he’d done it, and listen to his dad say how it hadn’t made any difference anyway, seeing as his mother was still dead.  
  
But at least his father wasn’t drowning in medical bills. So Stiles figured it was worth it. He just hoped his ‘Potential Lifemate’ wasn’t too bad.  
  
He really hoped, because, well, that just wasn’t his luck, was it?  
  
Hand shaking (which he resolutely ignored), Stiles reached out and picked up the envelope. He slipped his thumb beneath the seal, before pulling it open in one swift movement. Pulling out thick, expensive paper from inside, he read:  


_Department of Werewolf Affairs,  
_

_Potential Lifemate Division_

(and there was the department's logo - a silhouetted wolf, head thrown back, howling at a white full moon, edged in black - Stiles thought it was somewhat cliche)

 

_Certificate of Binding_

_Potential Lifemate:_ (and there was his name, his full, birth name - Stiles cringed)

_Potential Pack: Hale_

(and that, that might not be too bad, if, in fact, the Hales mentioned were the same Hales that lived in the woods near Beacon Hills - he'd been worried he'd end up halfway across the country, or the world. Still, considering his father's impending knowledge of the whole situation, perhaps it would be better if it was another Hale Pack, halfway across the world where his father could get at neither Stiles, nor the pack)

 

(there were some fancy signatures at the bottom. All in all, Stiles thought it rather looked a bit like a cross between his graduation certificate and an award for winning something - he wasn't quite sure why, as he hadn't actually won anything or achieved anything either, rather, he'd kinda sold himself instead).

 

There was another piece of paper behind the certificate, which Stiles pulled out. His palms were sweating and he could feel his heart-rate beginning to pick up. Closing his eyes for a moment, Stiles steadied himself, forcing his breathing to slow.

_You asked for this_ , he reminded himself. _You agreed to it. You can do this_.

He glanced down at the paper.

 

_Dear Mr Stilinski,_ (he read)

_Congratulations on reaching your age of Eligibility. As a registered Potential Lifemate, you have been carefully matched with a Potential Pack._

_An appointment has been arranged for you with an Advisor, to go over with you the process of presenting yourself to the Pack and becoming acquainted with your Potential Lifemate._

_Should you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact the Department or consult our website: www.potentiallifemate.com_

 

(beneath that, there was an appointment listed - for two days time - and the general contact numbers and emails)

 

 

Placing the letter down, Stiles took a deep breath.

It was - it was real. Somehow, despite signing (forging his father's signature) the paperwork, and shuffling things around (such as always doing the shopping), so his father never caught onto the extra money coming in (just a small stipend, really, but once Stiles was accepted into a Pack, that Pack would take care of any lingering debts - which would leave his father clear of unpaid medical bills), he'd never quite thought it was real.

And now, suddenly, it was.

He needed.... he needed to call Scott.

 

 


	2. The Lounge

 

"Scott!" Stiles yelled, as soon as his friend picked up.

 

"Stiles?" Scott asked.

 

"Scott," Stiles repeated.

 

"Stiles?"

 

Groaning, Stiles flopped backwards onto his bed. "Where are you?" he asked.

 

"Just leaving work," Scott replied. There was the sound of a car door opening. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

 

Stiles groaned once more. "I may have done something incredibly stupid," he admitted.

 

"Uh-huh," Scott hummed in agreement. "What did you do this time?"

 

"I may have, possible, signed myself up as a Potential Lifemate."

 

"Uh, yeah, Stiles, I know," Scott replied. "You told me, remember? And swore me to secrecy. We pinky swore."

 

"Yes! Yes!" Stiles agreed. "But, Scott! I got my papers."

 

"Your papers?"

 

"My Potential Pack papers!"

 

"What?!"

 

"I know, right?" Throwing up hands up into the air to express his feelings on the matter, Stiles fumbled with his phone. It flew out of his hand, tumbled through the air and then landed on the ground. Bodily throwing himself half-off the side of the bed, Stiles followed it down.

 

"...is really amazing, Stiles," Scott's voice said as Stiles brought the phone back up to his ear. "Who's your Potential Pack? When are you going to meet them? What -"

 

"Scott!" Stiles interrupted. "We have more important concerns than that right now."

 

"More important than which Pack you've been matched with?"

 

"Yes! How am I going to tell my father?"

 

There was silence.

 

"Exactly!" Stiles exclaimed.

 

"I'll be right over."

 

*

 

They ended up abandoning Stiles' bedroom (he was back staying with his father after finishing college, and there was too much chance of the Sheriff walking in on them - Stiles wasn't quite ready for that confrontation just yet), and heading off to The Lounge. The Lounge was Stiles' preferred coffee destination in Beacon Hills. Independently run, it was situated in the main street, down by the side of what passed for the town Square.

 

Surrounded by Bakeries, The Lounge was the kind of cafe that invited you to sit and talk, rather than simply grab a coffee and run.

 

It also made the best coffee in Beacon Hills.

 

Pushing open the door, Stiles stepped inside. The interior of The Lounge was done up in warm wood tones, with old-style accents and lighting fixtures; but with large windows that looked out onto the Square preventing it from being too dark inside.

 

Slipping easily into a chair at a window table, Stiles let his head thunk down onto the table. Shaking his head, Scott took the seat opposite.

 

“Dude,” he said, “it can't be that bad.”

 

Raising one hand, Stiles waved it through the air. “Oh, it is,” he assured his friend.

 

Scott frowned. “Really Stiles, you've known about this for how long?”

 

“Don't judge, okay,” Stiles replied, “just 'cos I may have been ignoring the situation -”

 

“Hoping it'd go away?” Scott cut in with a knowing tone to his voice.

 

“Yes!” Stiles declared. His lifted his head enough to glare at Scott. “And don't you go telling me it's a poor choice on my part – ignoring problems has always worked well for me in the past.”

 

Scott made a face that suggested he didn't entirely agree with Stiles' assessment. Stiles generously decided to ignore it.

 

“Well, look who we have here,” a cheerful voice said. Turning, Stiles smiled.

 

“Hey Erica,” he said.

 

Erica Reyes had grown out of her awkward teenage phase into the kind of woman who was entirely comfortable in her own sexulity – and in flaunting it. Stiles didn't think he'd ever seen any of the other waiters at The Lounge with such a daring neckline on their white tops. While he had to admit that he hadn't taken much notice of Erica during high school, her job at The Lounge, and his frequent visits for caffeine fixes during his college breaks had solidified their 'we live in the same small town so know each other' acquaintance into 'that friend I only really see when I get coffee, but we banter too much to just be aquaintances anymore'.

 

“So, what's brought you here at, oh, four o'clock in the afternoon?” Erica asked. “You're usually more of a mid-morning or just-before-closing customer, Stiles.”

 

“I know,” Stiles groaned. “Midlife crisis.”

 

Erica tutted. “You can hardly be having a midlife crisis,” she replied, jutting her hip out to lean against the table. “Word round town is that you've just finished college and are backing living with the Sheriff until you decide what to do with your life. That's not a midlife crisis, that's a post-college crisis.”

 

Stiles groaned. “Does everyone talk about me?” he asked.

 

Erica shrugged. “It's a small town,” she replied, “and your father _is_ the Sheriff.”

 

“You have to admit,” Scott cut in, “you are kinda like the Department Mascot.”

 

Groaning once more, Stiles slammed his head back into the table. A muttered, “Ow,” met the ears of his audience.

 

Erica laughed. “So, what can I get you?” she asked, hovering her pencil over the top of her notepad. 

 

“Anything,” Stiles replied, waving his hand in the air. “Anything that will help me get through the pain of the next few hours and dealing with my crisis in the time-honoured tradition of male bonding.”

 

Scott screwed up his face in response. “Just get him his usual,” he told Erica, before turning to Stiles. “Don't you mean whining?” he asked.

 

“Shut up, Scott,” Stiles replied. “It's manly bonding.”

 

Erica snorted. “Right, one usual for Stiles, and...?” she let her voice trail off suggestively.

 

Scott frowned, twisting to look over at the board. “Do you have that one with the little marshmallows on top and the extra cream?” he asked.

 

“Sure,” Erica agreed. She snapped her notepad shut before strutting off towards the counter. Stiles tilted his head to watch her walk away.

 

“Dude,” Scott hissed, “are you staring at Erica's butt? You can't do that! You're practically engaged now!”

 

“What?” Stiles asked. “No. I'm just wondering how much pressure those heels are exerting on the floor. Did you know, in really hot weather, women wearing thin heels like that have been known to get them stuck in tarmac? The thinner the heel, the more pressure that is exerting, as, instead of being spread out over a larger area, all the weight pushing down is focused on that one tiny heel, and -”

 

“Stiles,” Scott interrupted. “Aren't we supposed to be talking about your 'crisis'?” He even made air quotes with his fingers, the bastard.

 

Stiles scowled. “I don't see what there is to talk about,” he said.

 

Scott rolled his eyes. “You dragged me out here, away from your father, to talk about it,” he said. “So, talk.”

 

Sighing, Stiles shifted so that he was sitting upright once more. “How am I going to tell Dad?” he asked. “What am I supposed to do? What if the Hale Pack on my papers is actually the Hale Pack here? How am I supposed to go about this? Do I just turn up and be all, 'hi, I needed the money so I sold myself to your Pack?'”

 

Scott grimaced. “Maybe not that last one,” he said. “But, c'mon Stiles, you've known for years that this was coming. And Hale? No way! You got the Hale Pack? That's awesome! That means you can stay in town!”

 

“If they let me.”

 

Scott rolled his eyes. “This isn't the Dark Ages and you're not a Bride – shut-up, I can hear you thinking it from here.” Stiles closed his mouth with a pout. “All you have to do,” Scott continued, “is meet with your Advisor – Deaton, right?” Stiles nodded. “And then meet with the Pack. You spend time with them, to determine if you've been matched right and are actually compatible.

 

“If you are, well, then things progress. But really, I don't know why you're freaking out so much – you're the one who used to say you'd gotten the best of everything as it meant you'd get to be part of a Pack.”

 

“You should have told me not to be stupid,” Stiles replied.

 

“I am telling you not to be stupid,” Scott said. “I mean, really, you're way over-reacting. Just months ago, this was a good thing.”

 

“Scott,” Stiles replied, “I have to, somehow, admit to my father that _I forged his signature_ in order to sign myself up as a Werewolf Bride – and yes, that's totally what we're calling it now – so that we'd be able to pay for my Mom's hospital fees. He's going to flip.”

 

Scott shrugged. “You could just tell him you signed up without saying when you signed up?” he suggested.

 

“Are you, Scott McCall, actually suggesting I lie my to father, the Sheriff?” Stiles asked.

 

“No! Just – don't fill in all the details.”

 

“He's the Sheriff.”

 

“And you're his son.”

 

“Right – which means that he's always suspicious of me, because he knows me.”

 

“Which means that he'll totally believe that you're insane enough to have just signed up recently.”

 

“Here you go,” Erica said, placing their orders before them. She glanced between the two. “How's the crisis going?”

 

“What would you do if you found out you might be a part of the Hale Pack?” Stiles asked.

 

Erica laughed. “Stiles,” she said, “I  _am_ part of the Hale Pack.”

 

“What?!” Stiles exclaimed. “How did I not know this?” He kicked out the third at the table, motioning for Erica to take a seat. “When did this happen?”

 

“After school,” she said, biting her lip self-consciously for a moment, before smoothing it out. “I had seizures, you know that, right?”

 

Stiles nodded.

 

“Well, I got accepted for the Bite under a Medical Provision,” she explained. “Talia Hale accepted me into the Pack, and gave me the Bite herself. I've been Pack ever since.”

 

“Huh,” Stiles said, leaning back and looking at her. Then he groaned. “See,” he told Scott, “if I can't even tell Erica's gone Wolf, how am I ever going to fit in?”

 

“What I want to know,” Erica said, leaning forward, “is how you'd become Pack?”

 

Stiles froze – this was it, the first time he'd be admitting what he'd done (sort-of), to someone other than Scott. He swallowed. “I, uh, I kinda signed myself up as a Potential Lifemate?” he said.

 

Erica whistled. “Gutsy move,” she said, grinning. “Didn't know you were one to believe in all that, 'arranged marriage' stuff.”

 

“It's not a marriage yet,” Scott corrected, “it's just potential.”

 

“And where there's potential,” Erica suggested. 

 

Stiles groaned. “I'm dead,” he said. “If my father doesn't kill me for this, then I'm going to end up offending someone in the Pack and becoming a Wolf's chew-toy.”

 

“Oh, you might be a chew-toy,” Erica purred, “but not the kind you're thinking of.” She stoof with a smirk. “I've got to get back to work, but, hey, I look forward to seeing you with the Pack.”

 

“I have to go, too,” Scott said with an apologetic grimace and a glance at his watch.

 

“Allison?”

 

“Allison,” he agreed.

 

Stiles shook his head. “You are so whipped, dude,” he said.

 

Scott grinned. “I know,” he replied. Standing, he headed towards the door. “I'm in love.”

 

Shaking his head, Stiles watched him go, before thunking his head back down onto the table.

 

“Now, now, I wouldn't do that if I were you,” a voice purred. “I hear it kills braincells.”

 

Peering up from his position on the table, Stiles stared at the man who had taken Scott's place. Older than Stiles by perhaps ten years, he was rather handsome but with a smile that was just  too much of a smirk to quite be called a nice smile. There was something... dangerous... about him. Stiles was instantly intrigued.

 

“Why do you care?” he asked.

 

The man shrugged. “A pretty thing like you shouldn't go around depleting his assets,” he said.

 

“You just called me pretty,” Stiles pointed out. “That doesn't exactly require brain cells.”

 

The man laughed. “Oh, I agree,” he said. “But the two do make for a much better combination.” He reached out across the table, hand open. “Peter,” he said.

 

“Stiles,” Stiles replied, pushing himself upright enough to shake his hand. 

 

“Nickname?” Peter asked.

 

Stiles shrugged. “Something like that,” he said.

 

Peter nodded. “ I couldn't help but overhear that you may be joining the Hale Pack,” he said. “Are you sure that's wise?”

 

Stiles frowned, giving the man more of his attention. Tilting his head to the side, he considered him. Peter wasn't the kind of person that Stiles would generally peg for a Hunter. Hunters, since Werewolves had become public knowledge, but also been dragged into the spotlight.

 

Every year, students all over the country had to do at least one unit looking at the Werewolf and Hunter wars of the past. Most people liked to say that they had moved on from that, that things were better now.

 

They were better, but they weren't perfect. Every so often, so person would decide that Werewolves should be eradicated, call themselves a Hunter (pissing off all the offic i al Hunters –  called Hunter Liaisons – w hose role it was to help the Police with Werewolf-committed crimes), and try  to  do the eradicating themselves.

 

Personally, Stiles called them race crimes – or species crimes (he had never quite figured out if werewolves were another race or another species).

 

Peter didn't exactly look like a crazy Hunter nutjob,  but that didn't mean that he wasn't one.

 

“Why?” Stiles asked.

 

Peter shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “You didn't seem too convince about it.”

 

Stiles waved one hand through the air. “Hey,” he said, “I think I'm entitled to at least one freak-out about the whole thing. It's kinda life-changing.”

 

Peter smirked. “Which you knew when you signed the papers,” he said. 

 

Stiles shrugged. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But it's one thing to know and another to actually  _know_ , you know?”

 

“I think I do,” Peter replied with a chuckle. He leant forward. “So, _Stiles_ , tell me about yourself.”

 

Stiles made a face. “What's to tell?” he asked.

 

Peter said nothing. Stiles frowned. Then figeted. Then finally burst out with,

 

“Okay! So, I'm twenty-one, which means Eligible, just finished college, the son of the Sheriff, which means that everyone seems to think that everything about me is their business to know so that they can tell my Dad – like the first time I bought condoms. I swear old Mrs McGinty was glaring at me the whole time and the _closed the shop_ right after I left just so that she could hurry down to the station to tell Dad!

 

“I talk a lot, never shut up. I'm hyperactive, get a little crazy sometimes, and until later years when I managed to get most of my ADHD under control, Scott was the only one brave enough to put up with me.

 

“I have a fond appreciation for the human form – both male and female, can google-fu like no-one's business, and am the all-time reigning x-box champ of my college dorm.”

 

Pausing to take a breath, Stiles scowls at Peter's grin. “And you are a horrible, horrible person,” he said.

 

“True,” Peter agreed. “What do you think about the Hales?”

 

Stiles shrugged. “What's to think?” he asked. “It's not like I know them. I mean yeah, I think there was a Hale in my year at school once? But then, they moved away. Years ago. Came back while I was at college. So, don't really know them.”

 

“And Derek?”

 

“Derek? You mean Derek Hale? Wasn't he the older guy with the ears?”

 

Peter laughed, head tilted back and eyes twinkling with mirth. Stiles saw Erica glancing over at them before shaking her head and turning back to her cleaning. 

 

“Oh, I do like you, Stiles,” Peter said.

 

Stiles raised one eyebrow. “Creepy much?” he asked. 

 

“What would you do if I offered you money,” Peter said, voice suddenly serious, “to tell me everything you find out about the Hales once you get in?”

 

Stiles frowned, that crazy Hunter theory returning to mind once more. “I'd say you're nuts,” he replied. “And not the fun kind.”

 

Peter smiles, but it was all sharp teeth. “And if I threatened you?”

 

“Dude,” Stiles exclaimed, “my Dad's the Sheriff. I'd call him to come kick your ass.”

 

“Hmmm.” Peter leant back, looking at Stiles from beneath lowered lids. “I think we're going to get on fine, Stiles Stilinski,” he said. Pushing his chair back he stood. “I'll see you around.”

 

Watching the retreating back of the older man, Stiles just gaped after him.

 

“What even?” he asked. 

 

“Oh, don't worry,” Erica assured him. “Peter has that effect on most people.”


	3. Deputy Hotness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finally meets with his Advisor, and then (all the while seemingly stalked by Creepy Guy Peter), sees the new Deputy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter - but I figure you've waited long enough for an update.
> 
> As always, many thanks to all who have left comments and kudos.

Standing in front of the local 'Department of Werewolf Affairs' office, staring up at the white and black logo of the department, Stiles considered the possibility of running away to Canada. Then he remembered that the Department of Werewolf Affairs wasn't limited to just the United States of America and decided he'd have to go further. He'd heard Antarctica was nice this time of year.

 

“Are you just going to stand there?”

 

Turning, Stiles looked over at Isaac. Isaac, who looked like he should be cute and fluffy and always adorable and getting his own way by sheer looks alone. But Stiles was not fooled – despite having spent the past few years at college, he had been back during holidays, plus, his regular Skype-dates with Scott (platonic Skype-dates, in case anyone was wondering, but Skype-dates nonetheless), so he knew all about how Isaac's looks were the lyingest liars of them all.

 

Scott, who could really only stand to talk bad about real douches like Jackson, had still let slip enough hints (because Stiles was a master at understanding Scott-speak), for Stiles to know all about Isaac's lying look. Besides, Stiles had personally seen Isaac almost break the arm of a man who had thought it wise to hit his child in public. So Stiles was hardly fooled. He narrowed his eyes.

 

“Maybe,” he said.

 

Isaac shrugged, smirking at Stiles in that way that made little old ladies coo, but Stiles knew was totally patronising and laughing at Stiles' plight. “Suit yourself,” Isaac said, walking passed him.

 

Stiles frowned as he watched Isaac slip into the office – which was how Scott knew Isaac, as they both worked at the office, under Deaton. Stiles' new Advisor, Deaton. Deaton, who, Stiles knew from spending time around the office when he and Scott were still at school and Scott's job was part-time, could suck all the fun out of a room with just one disappointed look. This was going to suck.

 

Still, he was a Stilinski and Stilinski's were, if somewhat cowardly at times, also completely brave and foolhardy when it was called for (like when someone needed to steal the last bowl of ice-cream from under Jackson's nose).

 

Nodding to himself, Stiles stepped up to the door, pushing it open. “Have you ever considered,” Stiles asked as he entered (because that was his default setting, talking, not because he was nervous, okay?), “that the name of the Department leaves a bit to be desired?” He glanced up to see Isaac looking back at him with amusement written all over his face.

 

Interestingly (in a way that would have taken up more of Stiles' attention if he wasn't so focused on his reason for being there), that creepy dude Peter was also there, sitting calmly in one of the chairs in the waiting area.

 

“I mean,” Stiles continued, “'Werewolf Affairs', it kinda sounds like a counselling service, or, I don't know, let us help you to find a partner other than the one you currently have, or just plain bad romantic hook-ups or something.” (It had sounded better in his head). “It just doesn't have the right ring for such a serious and, uh, important, department.”

 

“Oh,” asked Peter, “isn't that what it does, though?”

 

“Creepy,” Stiles claimed, pointing his finger at him, before turning back to Isaac. “So, is Deaton in?”

 

“Stiles,” Deaton said, appearing from the back with that infuriatingly serene look on his face. Stiles secretly thought the guy stood behind doors listening for the perfect moment to enter (otherwise his appearing acts were entirely too creepy).

 

“Hey, Doc,” Stiles said.

 

“Here for your Advisor Appointment?”

 

“Nah, you know, just here to visit Scott,” Stiles replied. Behind him, Peter snorted. Stiles placed his hand behind his back in order to casually flip him off.

 

“Scott isn't working today,” Deaton replied.

 

Which, yes, Stiles knew that – it didn't mean he wanted to let everyone know why he was there!

 

“Why don't you come into my office,” Deaton suggested, motioning Stiles forward. Isaac lifted the barrier to behind the desk with a smirk. Slipping past him, Stiles followed Deaton into the one part of the Department office that he honestly hadn't explored (everywhere else had been thoroughly vetted soon after Scott started working there, just in case there was a zombie apocalypse and they needed to know the layout – it was a totally legitimate reason).

 

Deaton's office, like the man, was fairly bland, yet Stiles felt that there was something beyond the surface, something he couldn't quite see, humming way behind the dull facade.

 

“Sooo,” he said, taking the offered seat. Instead of sitting behind his desk, Deaton took the seat beside Stiles'. Which made him wonder just how horrible he actually looked, if the Doc felt it better to try and put him at ease (it wasn't working).

 

“Firstly,” said Deaton, “let me extend my congratulations.”

 

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. “I haven't actually done anything yet,” he said.

 

“You registered as a Potential Lifemate,” Deaton replied. “Not many people are willing to do that.”

 

“Well,” Stiles said, “it is kinda like an arranged marriage and most people like to choose their own life partners, so...” his voice trailed off and for a moment he was worried that Deaton would ask him just why it was, then, that he had chosen to sign himself up.

 

“Do you know how a Potential Lifemate is matched with a Pack?” Deaton asked.

 

“Uh -”

 

“It is done by scent.”

 

Stiles nodded. He had read that before, and he vaguely remembered, during the haze of submitting his Final Thesis, a package that had come with a 'scent provision' kit he'd used distractedly before sending it back (he didn't actually remember exactly how he'd provided his scent, but thought it had something to do with rubbing his wrists over a sticky piece of paper or something).

 

“A werewolf,” Deaton continued, “is able to tell a lot from a person's scent.”

 

“Okay...”

 

“Such as whether they are a compatible Lifemate.”

 

“Potential Lifemate,” Stiles pointed out, before feeling a bit like a dick for doing so. The aim, after all, was to move from 'Potential' to 'Lifemate'.

 

“It was based on your scent that the Hale Pack was chosen as your Potential Pack.”

 

Stiles suddenly had an image of representatives from different Packs all sniffing that sticky piece of paper he'd left his scent on, passing it between them and commenting on how he smelt.

 

Pushing way his thoughts, Stiles focused back on Deaton. “And by Hale Pack, you mean the Hale Pack here, in Beacon Hills?” he asked.

  
Deaton nodded. “Yes,” he said. “They are rather eager to meet you.”

 

Of course, no pressure.

 

“As you are aware,” Deaton said, “Potential Lifemates spend a period of two months living with their Potential Pack, during which time, either the Pack or the Potential Lifemate can decide that the situation does not suit them. However, this has been extremely rare ever since the selection of Potential Lifemates began to be carried out based on scent.

 

“As such, we will need to arrange for you to meet the Hale Pack and move into their territory.”

 

“Isn't, like, the whole town their territory?” Stiles asked.

 

“Correct,” Deaton agreed. “However, they do have a defined Inner Territory centred around their home.”

 

“So am I moving into their territory – in which case I could just stay where I am – or their home?”

 

“Their home.” Folding his hands calmly in his lap, Deaton stared across at Stiles. “Traditionally, a Potential Lifemate would dress especially for their presentation to the Pack.” His smiled softly at Stiles' incredulous expression. “However, these days, it is generally enough to ensure you are dressed semi-formally. I will take you out to their home, and present you to the Hale Alpha, Talia. At which time, she will accept your Potential Lifemate status and welcome you to live with the Pack while deciding whether to proceed with the Bonding or not.” He paused. “Do you have any questions?”

 

Stiles had a million. Things like, how much time did he actually have to spend with the Pack? Could he leave during the day to visit others? What about spending time with his Dad? Day trips? Would there be, like, scheduled activities for him to undertake to prove his worth as a Potential Lifemate?

 

But somehow, they all made it sound like he thought he'd be a prisoner at the Hale house. Which, while Stiles admitted that was what he was generally freaking out about (that, and the whole, potentially soon to be bonded to an unknown werewolf for the rest of his life), he didn't actually think they would really lock him up and throw away the key. So it seemed kind of mean to ask questions like that.

 

Deaton must have seen something in Stiles' face, however, as he reached over to his desk, retrieving a brightly coloured brochure and handing it to him.

 

_What to Expect as a Potential Lifemate_ , the title read. Stiles gulped.

 

“Now,” said Deaton, “if it suits you, I can take you to meet the Pack on Monday morning.”

 

Monday. It was Friday afternoon. That gave Stiles the weekend to somehow explain things to his Dad, and then pack enough stuff to  survive the possible two months (and then possibly rest-of-his-life) with the Pack.

 

“Sure,” he found himself saying.

 

“Excellent,” Deaton replied. “If you have any questions, feel free to contact me at any time.” He handed Stiles a card that contained a number Stiles knew wasn't the general office number. “You're going to do fine, Stiles,” Deaton told him even as he ushered him towards the door. “I'm certain of it.”

 

If only Stiles was so certain.

 

*

 

The next afternoon, having spent his morning sleeping in and then having a silent freak-out in his bed, Stiles found himself heading into the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Depar t ment along with Scott.  Ostensibly, he was there in order to ensure that his father was eating properly (a container full of salad clutched as proof).

 

Scott was there, however, to ensure that Stiles finally told his father about what was very soon to be happening (ie, Stiles moving out in order to spend time with the Hale Pack while they decided if they wanted him for a mail-order werewolf bride or not).

 

Stepping through the doors, Stiles grinned over at Scott, before almost tripping over thin air (he  _was_ getting better at the whole coordination thing, he was!) when he caught sight of the newest Deputy (Stiles knew he had to be the newest Deputy considering the fact that Stiles knew everyone in the depar t ment, but he didn't know this man).

 

“You're gaping,” Scott informed him helpfully. Shooting his friend a scowl, Stiles snapped his mouth shut, before moseying over to where Tara was manning the desk.

 

“Well, look who we have here,” she greeted warmly.

 

“Tara!” Stiles squeaked out (it was a very manly squeak). “Who's the new meat?” He cut his eyes over to where, well, the hottest Deputy Stiles had ever seen was standing talking to George.

 

“Hmmm? Oh, you mean Derek Hale?”

 

Simultaneously, Stiles realised a number of things. 1), that meant that Deputy Hotness could hear them if he bothered to listen in. 2), while, as a Potential Lifemate, Stiles wasn't meant to know the name of his Potential Were-husband (which was totally a word) yet – well, Creepy Guy Peter had mentioned Derek, out of all the Hales. So, there was a more than average chance that Deputy Derek Hotness Hale was Stiles' intended. 3), he was pretty sure that he wasn't meant to meet his intended until after meeting the Alpha.

 

Therefore, Stiles did the only sensible thing. Flailing wildly, he flung himself down below the level of the desk.

 

Frowning, Tara leant over the desk, peering down at him. “St -” she began, but Stiles waved his arms frantically, cutting her off, before reaching out and yanking Scott down beside him.

 

'What?' Scott mouthed – bless him, he'd spent enough time with Stiles to know when to at least try and be stealthy.

 

Holding his finger to his lips, Stiles crawled along to the edge of the desk, peering round to see Deputy Hotness walking away from them. Biting back on a groan – because that view was just as good – Stiles slumped back down against the desk.

 

“Okay,” Stiles said finally, “I think he's gone.” Scott, who had been engaging in his own version of frantic body movements to try and convey his need to know what was going on, calmed down.

 

“Who?”

 

“Stiles?” Tara asked, leaning over to look down at them once more.

 

“Uh, hey, Tara,” Stiles replied. He held up his container in offering. “We come bearing healthy food for his Sheriff-ness.” He smiled brightly (he hoped it looked innocent and convincing, but the looks Scott and Tara were giving him suggested it was either more of a pained grimace or a manic smile). 

 

“Right,” Tara agreed. She nodded towards the back of the station. “I believe you'll find him in his office.”

 

Nodding, Stiles moved into a crouch, before  dashing from Tara's desk, through the door, and then down beside Mark's desk. Scott, being the amazing best-friend that he was, followed – crouching run and all.

 

Poking his head up over the desk, Stiles gave the room a quick look, before commando rolling over to the next desk.

 

They'd made it three-quarters of the way across the room, and Stiles was just beginning to straighten up – having decided that  they were in the clear, when he saw Derek Hale beginning to return.

 

Flinging himself backwards and beneath a desk, he froze, Scott huddled in beside him. Footsteps walked past, pausing for a moment, before continuing on.

 

A long few moments later, Stiles peeked his head out.

 

“Really?”

 

Jumping, and cursing when he hit his head on the desk, Stiles glared up at Creepy Guy Peter.

 

“Seriously?” he hissed. “What are _you_ doing here?”

 

Smirking, Peter leant back against the desk across the way, crossing his legs casually at the ankle and shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

“For all you know,” he replied, “I work here.”

 

Maintaining his glare, Stiles crawled out from under the desk before brushing himself off. “Well,” he said, “if you'll excuse  us.” Deliberately, he turned to enter the Sheriff's office.

 

“I take it you saw Derek,” Peter said. “What did you think?” Stiles froze. He could feel the blush making its way up his neck and across his face.

 

A quick glance behind showed Peter smirking knowingly at him.

 

“Creeper,” Stiles said, flipping him off.

 

Entering his father's office, Stiles thumped the salad down onto his desk. Looking up, the Sheriff raised an eyebrow.

 

“You had better eat this,” Stiles told him seriously, “considering all the effort we had to go through just to get it to you.”

 

Frowning, the Sheriff leant to one side, looking out through his open office door. It appeared undisturbed. Still, he wasn't Stiles' father for nothing, so, giving Stiles a questioning and accusatory glance, he accepted the salad.

 

“And?” Scott prompted.

 

“And,” Stiles said, “we have to go now. Like, now now. Right now.” He grabbed Scott's arm when Scott opened his mouth to say something else. “Later!”

 

“Stiles!” Scott hissed as he was dragged back out through the station. “You have to tell him!”

 

“Not yet,” Stiles replied, before dragging them down behind a desk as Derek Hale walked back their way once more. A few minutes later, Peter walked past, chuckling at them. Stiles flipped him off – it was becoming a theme.

 

“No thank you,” Peter told Stiles, before adding. “You can come out now, if you like, the coast is clear.”

 

Standing up, Stiles threw his hands up in the air when he saw the young woman standing  beside Peter. While he may not have seen Derek Hale in years (years that had been extremely good to the guy, obviously), Laura Hale had been working as a teacher in town long enough that he'd seen her around.

 

At that point in time she had one eyebrow raised, watching him and Scott emerge from their hiding place.

 

“Uh,” Stiles said.

 

“Laura,” Peter said, “this is Stiles Stilinski.”

 

Laura's eyebrow, impossibly, rose even higher. “Really?” she said.

 

Stiles face palmed, before groaning through his hand. “I'm leaving,” he said, “right now. See you later, Creeperwolf.”

 

“Oh, definitely,” Peter assured him.

 

As they left (because Scott really was the best friend ever and loyally followed him out), Stiles heard a soft chuckle follow them and a quiet, “I think I like him.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to start another fic. Nope, not me. But then the plot bunnies attacked, and this is the result.


End file.
